


the world is so pale next to you

by waitfortheclick



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Death, Dreams, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Falling Castiel, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-18 11:56:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11873865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waitfortheclick/pseuds/waitfortheclick
Summary: Castiel dreams.





	the world is so pale next to you

She comes to him in dreams. 

He's been sleeping, something he guesses is a side effect of his expulsion from Heaven. It's never something he really plans - he just feels heavy, sits down, and suddenly he's somewhere else. The first time it happened he ended up under Naomi's drill, which frightened him so badly he jerked awake to find himself in an upholstered motel chair, Sam and Dean sprawled across twin beds. 

Terrified, mystified, he confided in Sam; Dean still looked at him like a wounded animal. Sam agreed to sit up with him, rolling his eyes at Dean's frown. Dean violently yanked up his covers, turned to face the other wall. That time, he was torn from a bench in a garden by Sam's gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Cas, you were snoring." He laughed, quietly and a little sad, before clicking off his bedside lamp.

The days go by and he takes more frequent advantage of the reliable vacancy of the Impala's backseat. His eyes meet Dean's in the rear view mirror, but neither of them say anything. He can still "teleport", just not as often as he'd like; and he'd rather save his energy. 

This is a precaution he assumes is purely superstitious, as he has no idea what exactly is causing this debility. If he doesn't know the cause, he certainly doesn't know the cure. Still, he does what he can, blindly.

The first time he dreamt about Meg, he still wasn't sleeping every night. He was on another bench - his preferred perch, he supposes - and he looked to his right, forward, then once more to the side, and there she was.

"Hey, tweetie bird," she said softly, smiling. He didn't say anything, afraid to break the spell, so they just sat silently. Even now he can remember it clearly, while details of most of his dreams slip away. He remembers how she sat a few inches away, hands in her lap, a little smile on her lips as she watched the birds mill about their feet. 

This was a Meg he never knew: a stillness about her so unlike the buzzing, hunted presence to which he had become accustomed. He watched her out of the corner of his eye and wondered if that serenity was something they had ever truly had a chance to experience; or if all they were ever destined for was violence and haste.

When he awoke, his eyes landed first on Dean, who was paused over his duffel, staring.

Sometimes she doesn't look like herself, the body she had inhabited; rather, a mix of different people. Someone he saw on the street, or someone he's never even seen before, doesn't recognize. 

Sometimes they're fighting invisible attackers, separated in darkness, and she's injured; he calls out but always wakes up before he finds her. 

He knows she's dying in these dreams but never watches it happen. He knows what death looks like, has even met the thing itself, but he doesn't know what it looks like on her.

One time, she was standing by a river, back to him as he approached from nowhere. From wakefulness. She didn't turn, and hands in pockets, asked: "Where's the canoe, Clarence?"

"What?"

"Don't play coy, you stole a canoe for us."

"I just arrived."

"You tell a girl you've got a big romantic date planned and then flake out on her? Someone's not getting any tonight." She clucked her tongue and laughed, and he didn't understand, but he felt warm. Then she walked into the water, and he tried to yell at her to stop. Tried to tell her to smoke out of that body, but his screams came out small and weak. 

He tried to run but fell to his knees, suddenly exhausted, sapped of energy, panicked and helpless.

At the same time, or, at least, it felt simultaneous, he was sitting in a dark motel room, watching a story on the news about a woman who had drowned. Heard someone say she was a "no good demon bitch". He didn't say anything but felt very sad, listening to Sam and Dean laugh somewhere around him. Knew he probably shouldn't say anything, feeling impotent again. As always.

He brought it up with Sam, didn't even try to approach Dean. Assuming Sam would understand, while not particularly caring if he didn't.

"Do I ever dream about Ruby."

"I understand how she betrayed you and your brother... but these things seem more emotional than logical."

"Cas, I'm sorry, I've never - we've never -" he stops, sighing, "dreams are just dreams, OK? You can't control what happens in your head when you fall asleep, but you can leave it behind when you wake up. It's the only way we can get anything done. I'm sorry we never explained that."

"Even if the dreams are good?"

"Sometimes especially when the dreams are good." He smiled that sad smile again, and Castiel didn't push it.

She isn't communicating from some other realm, she's just gone. His dreams are nothing more than things that were and things that will never be. 

When he kisses her it's just his mind replaying that moment in Crowley's stronghold. Sometimes, women he sees in pornographic videos, with Meg's voice dubbed over their lips. 

He's since learned how badly the good dreams can hurt; every time he wakes up he checks and fails to find evidence of her visits. 

In a selfish way he'd dream all night and into the day if he could. It feels gluttonous, this urge to indulge his subconscious. It also feels poignantly human. 

Prior to his disconnection from the Host he had felt a distant sympathy, even empathy, for humanity. Now though, deep in the trenches of it, it frightens him.

**Author's Note:**

> Written like 4 or 5 years ago, recently dug up, dusted off, edited. Beta by Barry Bluejeans; thank you very much!!


End file.
